


Safe

by sdk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-24
Updated: 2006-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/pseuds/sdk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione finds Harry. In the same universe as (and takes place before) <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1140086">The Second Tuesday of Every Month</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Second Tuesday of Every Month](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140086) by [sdk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/pseuds/sdk). 



> Written for the 7spells community on LJ and the prompt, "If you wanted honesty". Thanks to Grey for the beta!

The glass of firewhisky steamed in his hands, condensation dripping off the rim onto his calloused fingers, and with a slight nod to the mangled barkeep, Harry indicated the bottle should be left. 

He adjusted the hood on his cloak, still keeping his face hidden, though he needn't have bothered; the Leaky Cauldron was empty. The place had been attacked a month ago, nearly burned to the ground and Harry, feeling the weight of another disaster that he could have prevented if only he’d been fast enough, smart enough, _brave_ enough, anonymously sent the gold to Tom for rebuilding. This was the first time he’d gathered enough courage to see how the refurbished pub was doing, and the sight of the deserted room did nothing to ease his guilt. 

Tom was quiet, eerily so, but had peered curiously at Harry’s cloaked face and then told him the patrons would return once things quieted down. Harry wasn’t as optimistic. He’d walked along Diagon Alley earlier, hoping the hustle and bustle of witches and wizards would bring a sense of normality, maybe even boost his sagging spirits, but the Alley had been sparsely populated, mostly with those shrouded as he was, hurrying past the various shops with ‘closed indefinitely’ signs on their windows. 

Harry finished his second glass in silence and wasted no time in pouring himself a third; the harsh whisky no longer burned his throat, but reality was still too sharp. Hermione and Ron were probably worried about him. They rarely left him alone since Fleur and Bill’s wedding, Hermione dragging him to library after library, searching for even the most obscure mention of Horcruxes, while Ron challenged him to duels to sharpen his fighting skills. Ron wasn’t the most powerful wizard, but he was a brilliant strategist and kept Harry on his toes. 

But Harry needed a break. A break from them, a break from the impending task growing heavy on his shoulders, a break from the guilt that he hadn’t even begun searching for the Horcruxes because he hadn’t a clue where to start and he needed Dumbledore’s guidance more than ever. 

The dingy door opened and Harry automatically looked up, frowning when he saw a lock of bushy hair peeking out from beneath a black hood. He heard the muffled click of heels on the hardwood floor, and he took another long swig, downing half his glass in one go. 

“Harry.” Her voice was hushed, a contradiction of relief and annoyance. 

“Go away,” he said, unsteadily refilling his drink. Her cool palm found his hand, stilling his movement; she took the bottle and carefully set it back on the counter. 

“Go away,” he said, catching Tom’s narrowed eyes as if he were trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together in his head. Hermione sat down next to Harry, laying her hand lightly on his forearm; his skin tingled beneath her touch. 

“No.”

“Fine, then, have a drink.” He shoved the bottle in her direction and lifted a finger toward Tom. “Another glass.” 

Tom hobbled over, setting the tumbler he’d just been wiping with a dirty rag in front of Hermione before returning to the other end, glancing at them out of the corner of his eye. She ignored the glass and Tom’s looks, the tightening grip on Harry's arm the only indication that she wasn’t fully in control of her emotions.

“I don’t like firewhisky,” she said. The weight of her gaze left him feeling oddly vulnerable, and he turned away.

“Well, that’s all they serve here now, isn’t that right, Tom? Where’s Ron? I’m sure he’ll have a drink with me.”

“You’re pissed.” There was a faint trace of pity in her voice, and his muscles stiffened beneath her touch. 

“No, but I’m on my way. Where’s Ron?” he asked again, his eyes flitting to the door, certain that Ron wouldn’t be too far behind.

“He’s not here. He said—” Her voice faltered for the first time since she walked in, a fact that made Harry pause even in his current state. “He said we should leave you alone.”

“He’s right. You should listen to him.” He met her stare then and the worry clouding her brown eyes brought a faint trace of guilt welling in his stomach.

“Harry—” Her hand slid down his forearm, finding his fingers, and he shook her off, finishing his glass of whiskey, his eyes glued to the dark wooden counter. 

He heard her slide off the stool, his arm left naked once the pressure of her hand was gone. He felt a mixture of relief and disappointment that she was giving in, leaving him alone, until he heard the muted whispers at the other end of the bar. Glancing up, he saw Hermione and Tom conferring; she was probably arranging for him to be cut-off. Harry scowled. But Tom just passed something to Hermione, a small object that she slipped into the pocket of her robes, and then she was walking back toward Harry, her expression determined. He quickly averted his eyes, grabbing the bottle with a sweaty fist.

“Come on, we’re going upstairs,” she murmured, gently tugging on his arm; he gave in to her automatically, sliding off the stool on shaky legs, still gripping the bottle stubbornly. She ignored the whisky, a flash of disapproval flickering over her features before her face went blank again. 

 

***

 

Hermione shut the door as Harry ambled over to the bed, sinking down on the mattress with the bottle of whisky clutched in his hand. She locked the door and set the key on a nearby end table, then faced him with a sigh.

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Why am I doing what? I was just trying to have a drink,” Harry slurred, taking another gulp from the bottle. “How did you find me?” 

Hermione’s cheeks tinged pink as she wrung her hands, averting her eyes. “Don’t be angry with me, but I…I put a tracking spell on you.” 

“You did what?” 

“I was sure you were going off to do something stupid!” she exclaimed defensively. “You do sort of rush into things a lot…and I didn’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t imagine I’d find you here, though.” 

Harry didn’t answer, but also didn’t resist when she took the bottle from him again, setting it on the floor out of his reach. 

“Tell me what’s wrong. I can help.” 

“You can’t—No one can,” he mumbled, hardly aware of the words coming out of his mouth.

“Don’t be silly,” she admonished, and he glared at her. “No, you’re not silly…I just mean, we’re trying, Ron and I…all three of us—we’ll figure things out.” 

“No that’s not…”

“Then tell me what it is!” she interrupted, twisting her hands even more tightly. 

“It’s Snape—” Harry blurted out, shooting to his feet to stand unsteadily next to the bed. “I can’t concentrate on anything, I just want to wrap my hands around his throat and…I know I should be--I know there are more important--but I can’t stop—” His voice faded as his hands turned to fists at his sides, his breathing rough and uneven.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione stepped forward, but he held up his hand to block her; he thought he might break if she touched him. She paused, a deep frown set on her face.

“You’re not alone in this,” she told him quietly and he slowly dropped his arm, staring at the faded brown carpet. She took another tentative step toward him.

“Yes I am—I have to be.” 

“You’re not alone,” she repeated, her voice soft and she was so close now, he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Harry, look at me.”

She eased his chin up with gentle fingers; her brown eyes filled his vision. He took a deep breath, but couldn’t speak.

“Harry,” she whispered and her lips were parting, pressing against his and she was warm and wet and _safe_. He slipped his hands around her waist, clutching at her robes as he pulled her flush to him, a comforting heat radiating from her body. 

“No…” he said, half-heartedly pulling away. Both her hands cupped his face, holding him still. 

“Let me—” Then she was kissing him again and he didn’t want to stop her, his hands rising, fingers coiling in her hair. Her tongue stole past his lips and he couldn’t breathe, their embrace turning brutal as her arms snaked around his back, bunching in his cloak. His glasses were digging into his nose and he didn’t care, but a moment later she withdrew from his mouth, smiling shyly as she removed the frames and placed them on the end table for safekeeping.

She undid a clasp at her neck, and her robes dropped to the floor. “Hermione…what are you…?” 

“Shh…” Her skirt and blouse soon followed and he barely had time to realise that Hermione was standing there only in her knickers before she closed the distance between them once more, pulling off his cloak. She kissed him and he tasted faint traces of firewhisky on her lips, stinging his mouth. 

The rest of their clothes were shed, left in a messy wake leading to where Harry had Hermione pressed against the wall, their kisses fevered and needy. His lips descended on her neck, his muscles taunt as he gripped her hips and she was whispering something, but he couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t fair that her skin was so soft beneath his rough fingers, that he couldn’t stop touching her, exploring every bit of naked flesh that he could reach; it wasn't fair that it wasn’t enough, that their frantic groping created a longing in his stomach that he didn’t think could ever be satisfied.

“The bed, Harry…” She ran her hands up his forearms and he reluctantly pulled back; it took him a moment to understand her words. She smiled shyly again and grabbed one of his hands, prying it off her skin before she slid out from between the wall and his body. His eyes drunk in her form and he licked his lips, a hint of whisky lingering still, and he wondered if he might just be intoxicated, dreaming all of this.

She lay on the bed, her naked body displayed enticingly against the gray blanket, and he gulped, his conscience warring with his desire. He couldn’t escape her piercing stare and she licked her lips, dragging her tongue across the reddened flesh slowly, almost nervously.

“Harry…it’s okay…please come here.” She held out her hand, beckoning him, welcoming him, as if she could read his mind; she usually could. 

“Hermione—” It was the first word he’d uttered since she’d stood in her knickers before him and he moved reluctantly toward her. Their sweaty palms slid together as he took her outstretched hand; she tugged, and he was sinking onto the mattress, crawling on top of her as she spread her legs for him.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, running fingers through his messy black hair. “It’s okay, I want you to...”

She’d answered his unasked question and their lips met again in a dizzying kiss as his hands slid down her body to rest on her hips. Her fingers crept down his spine and pressed, urging him to move; he gave up resisting. 

An explosion of heat surrounded him, wet and soft, and he wanted to be so gentle, slow; he knew that’s what she deserved, but he was filled with a powerful need and she cried out as he thrust, and he ached, growing frantic as he tried to lose himself in her.

“Harry--” she chanted his name, with each breath growing louder, but he barely registered the sounds, competing as they were with the roar in his ears; he knotted the frayed sheets in sweaty fists, sinking his teeth into her shoulder, and he came as she screamed.

***

She held him in her arms as he cried, sobbing tears that didn’t belong to him, that couldn’t belong to him. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her soft skin; he couldn’t let go.


End file.
